


Perfect

by cuddlemecrowley



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Anxiety, M/M, angst then fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 18:10:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddlemecrowley/pseuds/cuddlemecrowley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos waits for the shoe to drop. As it turns out, so does Cecil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect

No relationship is perfect, a Disney-like dream full of flowers and butterflies or even a maybe-that’s-a-purr-or-maybe-it’s-a-hellbeast floating cat in the men’s bathroom. Sometimes it feels like it, though, but Carlos can’t help but watch for the shoe to drop, the glass to crack on Cecil’s skewed illusion of him. He is not perfect- he knows he is not. Perfection is unattainable, and he knows he fall short of anyone’s requirements. He’s quiet, he’s unapproachable, he says the wrong things, he diverts any and all subjects he’s uncomfortable with into his science talks, as Cecil lovingly speaks of them. Maybe it’s not the best solution- but that’s the way he is. 

The first argument happens between the tenuous line of “further or drop it.” At their fifth date, they had yet to do more than makeout in Cecil’s tiny and orangeypinkpurplish car, which was great and all, but now. Now they had to make a decision. Cecil was… Cecil was great. And warm. And friendly. And utterly enthusiastic about Night Vale and its rules and gossip and, disconcertingly, Carlos. How do you respond to a person when all they do is heap praise on you? Especially if you don’t deserve it? 

He really, really didn’t deserve it. 

Cecil had picked him up at his lab, a huge grin making his long face more rounded, or more angular, he wasn’t quite sure. “Big day! Junior Radio Host Intern Day!”

"What is Radio Host Intern Day?" Carlos had learned, early on, just to roll with it. 

"Why Carlos, didn’t you hear last night’s broadcast? We’re celebrating at the memorial for all of the interns who have lost their lives or their sanity in some way or another." 

Carlos settled in, listening to Cecil’s chatter, with one or two questions before sinking back into silence. It had not, necessarily speaking, been a good day. He wished he had cancelled, had called in and said ‘I can’t, I’m rattling like an old car and feel like I might scream.’ But he couldn’t- and never could. 

"Carlos?"

The car had been stopped- another Sheriff’s Secret Police rule, you must stop at every fourth fire hydrant- and Cecil was looking at him the way someone would look at someone who was, well, crazy. 

"I’m so sorry, busy day at work, what was that?"

Cecil blinked, light blond eyebrows pulled over lavender eyes in concern. “Are you alright, Carlos?”

"Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, I’m just-" Was he fine though? When was he ever fine? The pressure of perfection, of being correct, of being scientific, of being as completely geometric and knowledgeable, wore on him heavily, and he felt as though he could almost discern its weight.

Cecil resumed driving, but with significantly less chatter and more quiet. Oh no, thought Carlos. I’ve ruined him. I ruin everyone don’t I, just completely take people in love with me, or someone they think is me, and crush them completely. I’m not the person they think I am. I’m worse. I’m less than a human being, I’m scum, I’m-

They arrived at the library, the looming old brick building in the center of town, and as soon as Cecil turned off his keys he sighed. That sigh existed between them, almost corporeal, and idly, while bracing his shoulders for the impact of ‘get out of my car and out of my life’ speech, if that could actually happen. 

"It’s okay if you don’t like me, Carlos." Cecil’s voice, his grand and beautiful Voice, was miserable, low without a hope in the world. "I know I’m… overbearing. And I talk too much. And I tell everyone everything I’m feeling. And- I’m sorry. But it’s okay if you don’t… It’s okay. You can go. If you want." 

What? Carlos stared at Cecil, kind, beautiful Cecil, who told everyone the first day that he was in love with him, who sees everyone and everything and loves it all, and his heart broke to see Cecil so… sad.

"I-" But was that a rejection? Or was Cecil rejecting himself? "You’re not…" but he _was_ overbearing, wasn’t that the thing, he was too much and too much in love and too amazingly warm for cold, stoic Carlos. But- he was… "you’re perfect," Carlos blurted out. It takes a moment to realize that it was true. He was perfect, and beautiful, and odd, and terrifying in his utter difference from Carlos. He was incredible- and Carlos was, well, Carlos.

Cecil looked up from the steering wheel, eyes red-rimmed around the light purple, which is startling and amazing, and smiled, a watery smile. 

"You think so?" He shook his head. "I’m not perfect. You are." He looked like a little kid then, and Carlos’s heart aches to think of little Cecil, bouncing off the walls (maybe literally). 

Perfect. He’s not perfect. “I’m.. um. I’m not perfect. But you- you are-“

"Carlos!! You most certainly ARE perfect, in every single way!"

It’s too much, he has to breathe, he’snotperfecthe’snotperfect. "Please- Cecil-" he’s choking out the words now, blocked in the back of his throat. "Not. Please. Not perfect. Please- stop calling me perfect I’m not." He’s shaking now, oh god, Cecil’s going to have him leave, just like Louise and Marty and Alex and Stephen and so many, oh god, why can’t he just be quiet and suck it up, why can’t he be happy— 

"Carlos?" 

He was breathing, eyes closed, just breathing, just concentrated on the air escaping his lungs and the way if he can concentrate long enough he can experience the shift from oxygen to carbon-dioxide. 

"Carlos. Please. Look at me. Please?" 

He squeaked, or whimpered, or something that he would deny any other time of the day. 

"Carlos. Are- are you okay? Do I need to get you water, or a lightly-carbonated newerelderberry drink? Should I alert the Sheriff’s Secret Police-" Gratefully, Cecil paused when Carlos only shook his head. "Is my calling you perfect bothering you, dear, sweet Carlos?" 

That and every other compliment. I don’t deserve any of them. "Yes," Carlos spoke, muffled into his knees. He has curled them up, protecting himself like an armadillo. He was probably getting the seat dirty with his panic attack, and he almost laughed. "I don’t deserve it. None of it. Not good or sweet or kind or clever or-" he shuddered in oxygen, out carbon dioxide, "I.. I just need, need you to… stop. Please. Just- and it’s not you, it’s me, it’s all me- I’m not perfect, it’s like naming a cat a dog, it’s a-" 

"Carlos." His hand- long and skinny, just like the rest of him, and surprisingly warm—touched Carlos’s shoulder. It didn’t leave either, but stayed there, centered him, grounded him like a lightning rod, and he moaned- very, very quietly- because it was so warm and comforting and didn’t leave _don’t leave don’t go please-_

"I think you’re perfect. And not just your hair. You’re kind and funny and focused. You’re like the City Council, sometimes, Carlos. But you’re also not like them at all." Cecil’s voice was getting deeper, fuller- his Radio Voice. Carlos found himself searching and sifting through every word, puzzling the whys and the hows and whether or not they were earnest. ”You’re incredible. But you don’t think you deserve these words?” Carlos shook his head, nose bumping his knees, stomach sinking as he realized that Carlos will realize it, will see that behind his labcoat is nothing more than a man with an anxiety disorder and fifteen or so causes or examples of it, and he’s not sure which, that he’ll leave. 

The hand didn’t leave, though. 

"You are. And that is, beautiful, modest Carlos, why I love you. Because your perfection isn’t one-sided, one-faceted like a drawing of a house. How can we know it is in all 12 dimensions from one glossy photograph? Your perfection is total, and complete, and you will never shake me of it, I’m afraid." 

Carlos has picked up his head, and stared at Cecil, who was, of all things, of all wild impossible things, smiling at him. Like he understood. Like he knew. And his hand hasn’t moved, one inch, even though it was in an awkward position. He loves me. The thought coursed through him, but it didn’t give solace as much as another tense muscle in his shoulder. He knows _I’m not perfect, and that I’m broken, and that I’m a coward, and-_

"Sweet, beautiful Carlos, I hold absolutely no judgment about your worries." Not for the first time, or assumingly the last, Carlos wondered if he can read his thoughts. “I, too, suffer from overthinking, and over-analyzing, and I have come to the conclusion that it is from the orange smoke in my bathroom that I cannot get out. You, gorgeous, worrying Carlos, are not alone. And, if you don’t want me too-” here, his voice quivered. “I won’t leave you alone. Unless you want me, too, of course.” His hand dropped to the middle cushion beside them, and Carlos shivered from the chill of it. or rather, the absence of Cecil. 

Carlos sucked in a breath- in oxygen, out carbon dioxide- and reached for Cecil’s hand. “No.” Damn it, say more! “N-no. I like—you. I like you, and if you’re, good with this, with me” and my problems, my issues, my constant worry “I’m good with you. Staying, I mean, with you. Please.” The last word was a bit needy, a bit desperate, and with it he meant so much more. _Please don’t go. Please stay with me. Please keep repeating your love until I believe you. I’m so close. Please don’t be tired of me. Please let me learn to love, and especially love you. Please let me try. Please._

Carlos wouldn’t mind if Cecil could read his mind at the moment. 

Cecil, weird, mind-reading powers or not, smiled, and it’s like the warmest day in winter, oh, oh, Carlos felt some of the tension slip from his shoulders as it’s the same, bright smile, the same cheerful maybe crazy but very good Cecil, who loves without holding anything back, least of all himself. 

All throughout the service, which included a guerrilla attack against the librarians and a lot of running, Carlos felt warm, and relaxed, and as much as he can, he held Cecil’s hand. 


End file.
